


83. No Work, No Food

by cognomen, MayGlenn



Series: In The Hands of Destiny [4]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Chirrut is a little shit, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt!Baze, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slave Trade, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-23 11:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10718667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: It had been close to a year since Baze Malbus had left."Maybe next year," Alussa had said, and Nan-in hugged him.So when he was in the market the next day, Chirrut wasn't expecting the sudden pull of the Force. He let fall the cloth that was between his fingers and let the Force guide him."Baze?" he barely breathed, but was stepping into a roaring crowd, a rougher part of the city he didn't normally go into. The clink of chains and men shouting made Chirrut's stomach churn.A slave block.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Updated Author’s Note:
> 
> Please be aware that this story contains slavery trying to mask itself as indentured servitude—a plot element that should make us all uncomfortable. We do not intend to fetishize or mitigate this aberration. We are under no delusion that enslaving another person (and lying about it to legitimate the crime through law) is anything less than the worst crime a person can commit. It’s an important and awful reality of the _Star Wars_ universe (like Anakin Skywalker), and luckily, in our version of it, the people who do this pay for it (unlike Watto).
> 
> If it makes you uncomfortable enough, we hope you’ll instead choose to hit the back button and read some of the other lovely content being posted for Spiritassassin week. We’ve decided to moderate the comments for this story, but hope that won’t discourage you from leaving a review.

It had been close to a year since Baze Malbus had left. Another bodhi day had come and gone, and Chirrut had hoped he might show up again, but though he snuck out, as usual, to the festival, and was joined by Nan-in and Alussa this time (now that they all were Guardians of the fifth doan, they could get away with more transgressions), and though they had a grand time dancing and eating and laughing, Baze didn't appear.  
  
"Maybe next year," Alussa had said, and Nan-in hugged him.  
  
So when he was in the market buying new cloth to make robes for the smallest initiates, who were growing so fast (and, yes, the joke literally actually was that sending the blind man to buy cloth helped the younglings to combat vanity), Chirrut wasn't expecting the sudden pull of the Force. He let fall the cloth that was between his fingers and let the Force guide him.  
  
"Baze?" he barely breathed, but was stepping into a roaring crowd, a rougher part of the city he didn't normally go into. The clink of chains and men shouting made Chirrut's stomach churn. A slave block.  
  
They didn't  _call_ it that, of course. These were 'prisoners of the Empire' whose labor was contracted out to the highest bidder until they served their term. And their crimes did sound horrific—honestly  _too_ horrific, and Chirrut frowned. Slavery was illegal on Jedha, but if this wasn't _technically_ slavery, he couldn't do anything about it, and it only made him angry.  
  
It was moments like these that he was grateful to be blind.  
  
The pair of slavers at the head of the auction block prodded their group of wretches up onto the inspection platform, carefully muted, each one held silent by cruel plasteel covers that at least allowed them to breathe. They had to make their pitch to the Imperial General in charge of the mines, a man who looked bored with the whole proceeding.  
  
If Baze was surprised to find himself back on Jedha—yet again—it didn’t last long. He’d thought a lot about what Chirrut had said about Destiny and how the Force would guide you back to it in the months of his captivity, passed hand to hand until he found himself here again. The months have not been kind to him. He has resigned himself to this; though there is the small hope that he will not die in the mines before  _someone_ finds him.  
  
The sound of his name in that familiar voice, carried to him even through the din of the crowd. It lifted his head, straightened his bowed shoulders with hope and he looked up, over the crowd to try and find—was he just being hopeful? His chains held him tight to his neighbors, all clothed in rags, so he had to strain to see.  _There_ he thought, at the back of the crowd. He’d know Chirrut anywhere—and he could almost feel him there, reaching out through the Force. If he could only—somehow—  
  
Then the chains clanked again, and pulled tight, and the rest of the line began to move—resigned through enough shocks from their guards (each equipped with a long-reaching shock pole and no reservations about using it) and prior mistreatment enough to move them. Baze resisted the pull as if he could hold back the whole line until Chirrut noticed him,  but one of the guards hit him with the shock stick, and then again, until the pain robbed him of his balance and he had to go along with the line.

...  
  
"Hey, Chirrut, how was the—hey!" Nan-in grunted. "Chirrut, Master Sidhava sent you to the market for  _one_ thing. What did you get? Chirrut? Brother, are you okay?" he asked, jostling him.  
  
Chirrut shook himself, as if out of a daze or a trance. "What?”

Chirrut thought he had sensed Baze, but not heard him. Surely Baze would have come to him? Called to him? What would he be doing at a slave market, anyway? Wishful, carnal thinking again.

“Yeah, oh, fine,” Chirrut said, returning his attention to Nan-in “I—oh, what an idiot! I'm sorry, Nan-in, I'll go back out."  
  
"Not without me, you won't. It's getting dark out there."  
  
"Doesn't make any difference to me," Chirrut said amiably, and together the monks made their way down the steps. "So what the hells did you sense to make you forget your single solitary errand?"  
  
"I thought I—" Chirrut said, and then blushed.  
  
“A pretty girl?” Nan-in teased, following along with him. “A pretty  _boy_? I don’t know how you always seem to pick out the pretty ones. Or were you just daydreaming again? It’s alright. I can help you pick something that the novices won’t look completely ridiculous in. Only  _mostly_  ridiculous.”  
  
He kept pace with Chirrut, but seemed to sense there was something a little different today—he wasn’t just the regular sort of distracted.  
  
“What’s really on your mind?” Nan-in asked, concerned.  
  
"I thought I felt Baze. But it wasn't—he wasn't there," Chirrut sighed, and shook his head. "Wishful thinking. I have to stop that. He'll be back. When it's time."  
  
He huffed again, changing the subject. "So. Last time I came back with something printed with cartoon pittins, the children loved those. You'll have to deny having helped, of course..."  
  
Nan-in patted Chirrut gently, reassuring. He had faith that the Force wouldn’t let Chirrut suffer forever, and he’d come to believe that Baze  _would_  be back. When was another question—the only answer was probably ‘when it’s time,’ like Chirrut said.  
  
“I think I’ve seen a print with foxes,” Nan-in piped up. “And I would have enjoyed that when I first joined. We only had that...mustard colored stuff. With the spots.”  
  
He helped Chirrut pick out a few different cute patterns, promising to keep the secret that he’d helped at all, doing his best to keep Chirrut cheered up and smiling—after all, he deserved to be happy, too.  
  
"Ah, I remember that vividly," Chirrut teased, and Nan-in laughed. "No, I do! You never stopped complaining!"  
  
They came back with meters of cloth that Chirrut could claim was "soft and inexpensive" and it was brightly colored and stamped with foxes. Even the initiates who were "too old for that" secretly seemed to like it, and Chirrut didn't think of Baze for many days filled with cutting and sewing.

...  
  
It was a while later that Master Sidhava went to make his inspection—it’s his least favourite task. He can only protest to a point; the Imperials claim that the workers are penal prisoners, and that their hard labor is a penance for horrific crimes which they have documented. In reality, he is fairly certain this is untrue—he has known the slaver ring operatives for a very long time. He’d driven them off Jedha himself, when the temple had a different Head Master.  
  
“As you can see,” the Imperial captain overseeing the mining operation informed him. “We’ve upped the output by nearly twenty percent with these extra laborers. I anticipate we’ll meet the quota very soon now, and then we can all part ways...”  
  
Sidhava doubted it, but did his best to look dutifully grateful.  
  
“And these men working,” he couldn’t help but add, aware that Alussa’s eyes were on him far more than he was aware of the delicate balance between his power and the Imperium’s. “They have their needs seen to? I could arrange for food—”  
  
It was dark down here, the men were dirty; they were mining, of course. Even the faint glow of the kyber vein exposed to their efforts couldn’t illuminate the whole chamber. But out of the line, Sidhava picks up one very familiar figure with a pickaxe—his eyes are just drawn to the shape of him; though his head is shaved and his skin and clothes are red-brown over most of him and black in others from the work. He could be any of these men, but he isn’t.  
  
“—and water to be delivered, if it eases the strain on your men,” he finished quickly, reaching out to tug Alussa’s sleeve discretely, making a gesture toward Baze, requiring her to verify what he’s seeing.  
  
"Nonsense," the captain said. "Of course we see to all the needs of our workers. We wouldn't want to subject your monks to the pathetic sight of these ruffians."  
  
"But it is part of our mission, of course, to grant mercy to those who least deserve it. You would be giving us a wonderful opportunity."  
  
Alussa, who had now spotted Baze herself, eyes widening briefly, interrupted the captain's protest.  
  
"There is Brother Chirrut, Master Sidhava, who is blind, and very stern. He will be kind but unswayed, I think. And he is unable to perform so many of our usual acts of mercy, because of his handicap." All of these were lies, of course, and Sidhava knew it, but the captain seemed to waver, sensing a diplomatic opportunity that outweighed the potential risks. Maybe he was a rat, and didn't just look like one.  
  
“Yes, it would be an excellent task for Brother Chirrut, who has so few opportunities,” Sidhava agreed, giving Alussa a glance—she was laying it on a  _little_ thick. “And of course he would be spared the pathetic sight of your ruffians.”  
  
If he sounded a little smug, it was because it was such an elegant solution.  
  
“Well, I suppose—” the Captain began.  
  
“Besides, workers with full bellies work harder,” Sidhava suggested, gesturing around. “I’m sure he’ll be useful to you, and you can spare some of your men the job—I’m sure there’s more important duties than these.”  
  
“I mean, we usually just assign one of the prisoners—” the Captain attempted to get a word in edgewise.  
  
“All the better!” Sidhava overwhelmed him, cheerfully. “One more worker.”  
  
The Captain gave up. “I suppose, for a day, you can send your blind monk down. A little spilled water won’t hurt anything...”  
  
...

That evening, Master Sidhava summoned Chirrut to his presence.  
  
"Sit down, Brother Chirrut," he instructed, and Chirrut sat guiltily.  
  
"If this is about the initiates' new robes, Master, I—"  
  
"No this is a different matter—wait, what about their new robes?" Sidhava shook his head. "Never mind. Chirrut, I have some news and a task for you."  
  
"Yes, Master, anything," Chirrut said, face eager and hands folded. All told, he was a very good monk, and he only  _really_ ever broke the rules for other people, which Sidhava could hardly scold him for.  
  
"Thank you, brother." Master Sidhava sat, knowing what this would mean to him. What Baze meant to Chirrut. He had his own faith in the Force, after all, and in Chirrut's uncanny ability to read the will of the Force, and sometimes even to see it. The nature of the relationship Chirrut had with Baze was a little unorthodox, but... "I need you to hear me out, Chirrut. If you do anything rash, I will absolutely throw you out of the Order. If you so much as stand up before I'm finished speaking, I will throw you out. Clear?"  
  
"Um," Chirrut said, his permanent smile falling a little. His heart began to pound, sensing...but he nodded. "I will sit."  
  
“I have reason to believe the Imperials are lying to us about the nature of the laborers they’re using,” Sidhava said, gravely. Maybe if he got all of the important information across  _before_ he mentioned that Baze was down there, he could impart some caution or some idea of the whole mission to Chirrut before he went charging off on his own.  
  
“I believe that they aren’t all documented prisoners,” Sidhava continued. “And I believe that if we can come up with proof of that we’ll be able to shame the Empire into releasing them. But we’ll have to be careful about it.”  
  
Chirrut nodded gravely. His heart was beginning to pound quicker, more urgent, almost  _excited_ , though he let none of it show. The Empire was still new, and used its heavy hand lightly, as a Pristine Image was still important.  
  
Sidhava paused, watching Chirrut for reaction, but seeing that he was still listening—and so far paying attention to what he was saying, he continued. “I’ve secured permission for you to go in and give water to the men down there. I told the Imperials it was part of our duties to help unfortunate people and the men down there definitely classify as unfortunates. If you could...”  
  
Sidhava hesitated, and then forged on. “If you could pretend your lack of vision impairs you more than you and I know it does, I think you may be able to find something useful down there.”  
  
Chirrut beamed,  _honored_ to be given this task.

"Absolutely, Master Sidhava—" he began, overeager as always, before Sidhava interrupted him:  
  
“Also, Baze is one of the prisoners they’re holding.”  
  
The smile and all the color dropped from his face. "  _WHAT?!_ " he demanded, and might have lurched to his feet if Sidhava hadn't suddenly laid a hand on his shoulder, and he remembered,  _Oh, right, I'm supposed to stay calm but HOW can I possibly stay calm?!_

"Baze Malbus? How? Where? Did you—is he—I knew it! I knew he was there, in the market—I felt him, but I was too stupid to—Master Sidhava, you have to know Baze would never do anything to get in trouble with the law, not after what happened! They have to be lying, they must have got him treacherously, somehow! Please, you have to let me go  _now_ , I need to talk to him, I need to see him—" he began frantically, and he got up from the chair but only to drop to his knees and kiss the hem of his Master's robe, head bowed. "Please, please let me go to him..."

 _Chirrut, you fool! This is what you deserve for not heeding the pull of the Force, and now Baze has suffered on your account!_  
  
"I believe there is very little a man could do that would deserve what they are enduring," Sidhava admitted, his touch on Chirrut's shoulder more gentle now. "But I never saw that in your friend, for certain. I don't believe he committed any crime, and it makes me wonder about the rest of them."  
  
He sighed, exasperated by Chirrut's desperation. "I need you to go in the morning, I have arranged for you to. We must do this the right way, and not just for Baze, do you understand? He was still strong when I saw him, but others may not be, and if we can I want to help them all."  
  
Chirrut shook himself, nodding, trying to calm and center himself, though it was difficult. He dropped his master’s robe, but stayed where he was, on his knees. "Yes, Master Sidhava. I will go, for all of them."

Of course, he cared about all of them—whether rightfully or wrongfully imprisoned, they were still people, and the slavers treated them like animals. A massive injustice, but one that he might be able to do something about, and  _that_ was what made his hands tremble with anticipation. "I'm sorry that I—spoke out of turn, Master."

He lifted his head, and he heard Master Sidhava sigh before helping him to his feet.

"I'll go in the morning, and play the part of the oblivious blind man," he repeated, to show that he had been paying attention. "For all of them."  
  
"It's alright, Chirrut," Sidhava said, fondly. Chirrut was trouble, and in other times, time of prosperity, that would mean only difficulty for him and the Guardians. But the Force had a way of putting Chirrut's troublemaking to good use. He was here, now, where trouble was often needed. "I wish more of us would speak out of turn from compassion, rather than fear."  
  
After a pause, Sidhava reveals a co-conspirator," Alussa saw him with me today.It would be best if you told no one else what you're up to..."  
  
"Of course," Chirrut answered. "But Nan-in...?"  
  
Sidhava sighed, and almost laughed this time. Chirrut was  _entirely_ too attached, which made him at once a very good monk and a very terrible one. He might as well have tried to keep Chirrut from telling his own brother. "Fine, Nan-in, but no one else. We don't want to...implicate anyone else."  
  
Chirrut managed a smile at that. It was like a secret mission! He was a  _spy_! They were going to  _save_ these people, and—  
  
And he was going to have to leave Baze where he was tonight. All night. Suddenly he didn't feel so heroic.  
  
"I—I'll talk to Alussa, Master," he said, bowing. "Water and—rolls? The good hearty wheat rolls, I could bring them. Easy to eat and quite filling, and not too hard in case any of them don't have good teeth..."

And he could have his staff, because he's  _blind_ , after all. In case things got ugly.  
  
"I'll arrange it with the kitchens. It wouldn't be the first time you found yourself with an extra duty," Sidhava said, knowing better than to expect his three wayward Guardians to not go together. "Be careful, Chirrut. Destiny can be tricky and tempting, but it's there for a reason."  
  
He dismissed Chirrut back to his preparations, and went off to make his own with the kitchens and the rest of the Masters.  
  
Chirrut bowed, and made his way out the door, tapping his staff on the ground in front of him. But his brain was already screaming at him, and the second he turned the corner he was in an all-out sprint.

...  
  
Sister Alussa was sitting on Nan-in's bed, waiting, and they heard his sandaled feet hitting the floor outside. "Here he comes."

  
"Nan-in, Nan-in! You'll never believe what happened! Sister Alussa!" he cried, realizing she was there, too, by the smell of her hair. "Alussa, you said Baze was here!  _Here_! Those slavers have got—"

“I know,” Alussa said, trying to soothe Chirrut into speaking a little more slowly and a little more privately.

By the time his brain caught up to his mouth, he realized he was talking too loudly.

"Sorry!" Chirrut whispered, and shut the door. "Baze is here. Down in the mines. Master Sidhava is sending  _me_ down there on a mercy mission to find out what's  _really_ going on..."

“Is  _that_ what this is all about?” Nan-in asked, interrupting Chirrut so he would breathe. “Alussa wouldn’t tell me, she just said—”  
  
“I thought I could tell you both and save some time,” she said, and clasped Chrrut’s hand. “Oh, Chirrut, yes, I saw him. It was awful. But Sidhava got you in—and if you can get us in, I’m sure we can—find a way to help him, right?”

"I'm just supposed to reconnoiter," Chirrut said, finally slowing down enough to think.

“When do  _I_ get a daring, dangerous destiny?” Nan-in asked, already resolved to help. “What are we going to do? How will we get him out?”

"Nan-in, you  _have_ your Destiny, I have already told you," Chirrut said shortly. A Destiny According to Chirrut's Crazy Force Visions, anyway—only 'carry on the Whills Legacy' wasn't apparently 'cool enough' for Nan-in.  
  
“Okay but yours is very big and strong and also present,” Nan-in argued, waving his hand to indicate how nebulous his own seemed to be.  
  
Chirrut turned to Alussa, looking just above her head. "How  _was_ he, please? How might I know him? I—I couldn't even sense him properly, before. Stupid!"

He thumped a hand against his face.  
  
“Well,” she said. “He was alive, dirty...probably miserable. But there were so many of them, Chirrut, I mean—how could you expect to pick one grain of rice out of a thousand? It was probably only the Force that showed him to Master Sidhava and I.”  
  
“It’s bad down there,” Nan-in said. “I’ve seen them work men to—”  
  
Alussa elbowed Nan-in, ending his sentence with a grunt.  
  
“He’s alive. Less hair, maybe a few more scars, but alive. That means we have hope,” she said, firmly.  
  
Chirrut sometimes appreciated how optimistic Alussa always was, coloring the situation—out of kindness—as brightly as possible for him. This was not one of those times. Of  _course_ he had hope, he had confidence in the Force, and trusted to Baze's strength for the rest, but this wasn't the time to sugar-coat—  
  
He let it go. He would feel Baze for himself tomorrow, even if the brush of his fingertips was the most he could hope for. He stood up again. "Okay. I need to be down in the kitchens, but I'll speak to you two before I go...down."  
  
“Wait, the kitchens?” Nan-in asked. “What’s the  _plan,_ Chirrut?”  
  
Alussa got up, following them both as they headed through the hallway, equally interested. “Yes, we need to know what we should be ready for tomorrow, right? What can we do?”  
  
“Are you going to bake a cake with a file in it?” Nan-in asked, sounding somehow excited by the prospect. “Like those old holos!”  
  
Chirrut stopped, and Nan-in ran into him.

"Hey that's an idea!" he cried, and then glared. "No, I was just going to bake  _food_ for those poor people. You don't have to help,and there's nothing you need to be ready for. I'm just going to go down, give them food or water—I'm sure they don't have enough of either—and see how we can help them. I promise I won't do anything rash."  
  
“I’ve heard that before,” Nan-in said. “I mean, maybe I even believed it the first three times...”  
  
“I think Chirrut wants to do this on his own,” Alussa said, suddenly catching on. She hooked her arm through Nan-in’s. “We’ll just attract attention if we go around the temple with him. Just come let me know if you need us, okay Chirrut?”  
  
“He’s going to do something as soon as we stop looking at him,” Nan-in protested, but allowed himself to be led away.  
  
Chirrut spent his evening praying over bread, baking it thick with butter and nutritious seeds and nuts and salt, and he packed them lovingly, except for two, which he wrapped up and set aside for Nan-in and Alussa, the best friends anyone in the entire galaxy ever had.  
  
It was late already, according to the midnight gong, and it was going to be light in four hours, which was when the prisoner-slaves would be put to work, so Chirrut decided to meditate instead of sleep. It was the only way to quiet his mind from worry, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

There were cells in the dug-out and spent part of the mines running beneath the plateau surrounding the city. It was a way to make use of the previously emptied tunnels, and a very good deterrent to escape; there were no windows, no walls that faced an outside world; just three stone walls, a floor and ceiling, and bars. Even the ventilation for the prisoners came from shafts outside their cells, sunk so far into the roof that you could only see light through them at noon.  
  
Baze at least had his own to himself; his cell-mate had passed away early, coughed himself into the great beyond after breathing too much of the dust from the mines. Baze had cut a strip from his shirt to tie over his mouth afterward, supposing the dead man wouldn’t much miss it and that the guards wouldn’t notice.  
  
They hadn’t.  
  
The cell was ten paces deep by six wide. He would walk it if they put him up before he had exhausted himself completely, using the last of his energy like a draft animal that might colic if he didn’t use everything inside him up. Tonight, he doesn’t have to. He’s worn out. The thin paste they push through the bars in a wooden bowl didn’t appeal to him. He stretched himself flat on the cot instead, and looked up at the barren rock ceiling, thinking how much he felt like a blind cave animal; he had not seen the sun since his day in the square, since he’d heard Chirrut’s voice.  
  
It seemed a fitting duality of experiences. Baze closed his eyes and thought the inside of his eyelids looked very little different from the low, wet roof of the cell. Chirrut had been there, was _here_ on this planet, just above him, and Baze had been returned again. He knew that the orbit was circling tighter every time, and he’d fought it anyway. His back and shoulders ached; the cuts of vibro-whips and the agony of overwork, and he accepted that this was the weight he had to bear with his body because he knew his Destiny and he had fought it.  
  
It was alright; he could almost still hear Chirrut’s voice, soft. Describing the forms—not ten thousand, but ten; soft, careful hands guiding him. He thought of them now, instead, as forms he must stretch his thoughts into. Reach out, swoop down, pull something up from the floor—hope or dignity or the last memory of light. He thought, too, of Chirrut’s voice calling his name in the marketplace, the nearest brush, and wishes he’d had longer there. Some way to answer that call—his heart had, but his voice had been muzzled. He should have tried harder.  
  
Chirrut's eyes opened at the gong for Prime from a dream practicing the Ten Thousand Forms with Baze, and in the quiet of the darkened kitchen he thought could almost hear the pickaxes scraping away far, far below. Already. _Already_.  
  
This could _not_ be Empire-sanctioned.  
  
He went to the first prayer with the sleepy-eyed Acolytes and the Head Masters and few others. It lasted only a few minutes, and he would need his prayers today.

He let his lack of sleep settle over his shoulders and into his stumbling feet as he carried two large baskets of bread down the hundreds of steps, and then returned for two large pitchers of water.  
  
Down here, at the entrance to the mines—guarded by two tough and mean-feeling characters—Chirrut could hear the pickaxes clearly, the cries and gasps and grunts of hard work and _pain_. He heard whips cracking and someone _weeping_ , the slide of stone and clink of crystals. Why did they need so many? He couldn't help but feel that his Temple, his _planet_ was being robbed of her heart, but that was a pale pain compared to the collective _agony_ he felt below. There were so many souls, all hurting and lost. A hundred? More? Where was Baze—?  
  
"Ah, oh yes, the blind man. Boss said to be expecting you," a voice grunted, startling Chirrut, who had overreached his senses, losing focus on what was right in front of him. Which was fine, he was supposed to be playing the part.  
  
"Told us to inspect your wares," another voice said, and Chirrut heard them begin to rummage through his bags of bread and pots of water. Ugh, was he washing his hands in the water? Chirrut put on a smile. "Of course, officers. Look away. The bread was fresh-baked this morning, by me."  
  
"By you? We're supposed to make sure you're blind."  
  
Shit. "Oh! Oh, I mean, they don't let me near the—"  
  
Chirrut actually _felt_ the slap coming, a slow, meaty hand that he might have bent backwards into a break as easy as blinking—and that made it _worse_ when he let it connect with his cheek, catching cheekbone and nose so that it stung.  
  
His companion laughed. "Yup. He's blind, all right."  
  
"Ain't they supposed to turn the other cheek?" the man said, and backhanded him.  
  
Chirrut prayed for their souls, promising himself that they deserved as much if he was going to send them to their Maker. It wasn't for his _own_ pride. He could take care of himself. But the part he was playing was a helpless blind monk, and if they enjoyed mistreating _him_ , then how much more did they mistreat the slaves?  
  
"I assure you, sirs, I am quite blind. I am only here to feed the prisoners," he managed, forcing some tears for effect.  
  
The first tough looked Chirrut up and down, satisfied by the picture presented. Washed out eyes, cheeks red with palm prints, struggling to keep his dignity. Down below, it was dark as pitch, but he didn't offer a lantern.  
  
"Go on, then. Don't let us catch you doing anything but what you're supposed to," the second guard said, taking a handful of rolls for himself. "And try not to talk to the prisoners, they're all liars, and dangerous. If you're lucky, there's no cannibals on shift today."  
  
As Chirrut passed, he stuck out his foot to try and trip him up—some Guardians! Old men and women and helpless blind idiots. "Oops!"  
  
The only ones Chirrut was worried about were these clowns, but he didn't say so, and made his way down the winding path, weighed down with baskets and jars, looking like he struggled with them more than he actually was.  
  
"Ah, look, you get breakfast today, scum!" someone—another guard—shouted. "Here's the deal. You keep working until he gets to you, then your team—" the way he said 'team' and the clank of chains told Chirrut that they were chained together into small groups, maybe four or five, "—gets a ten-minute rest period. You don't get another one until midday, so make it count."

A whip cracked dangerously close to Chirrut's face, but he kept himself from flinching.  
  
"Where should I start, sir?" Chirrut asked brightly, his smile to the point of painful since he was clenching his teeth in anger.  
  
"Over here. Oh, that's right, you dumb idiot. Left. MY left." Chirrut obeyed, feeling a group of them nearby, who the guard clearly wanted him to trip over. He managed to make a stumble over a chain look realistic.When he spoke again, his mouth was full: he must have taken some bread for himself.  "Don't let 'em talk to you, and don't give 'em more than their share."

"Here you are, friends," he said, soft and gentle and far more confident than he sounded to the guards, his hands unerring as he dished out the food.Chirrut knelt in between the circle of four bodies, all chained together  "Good bread. I'll be back around with water after. Everyone take a roll. Will you let me pray for you?"

The prisoners gathered around him gratefully, one man taking a second roll to pass back to a girl who couldn't reach; here the rattle of chain was dull, likely indicating that she was fixed to the floor or the wall.  
  
"Thank you," a rough voice said, coughing, carefully muffling the cough away from the basket and the others. "Thank you, your prayers are the only ones we'll hear."  
  
"Keep it down," a second voice hissed. "You know they'll punish us if they hear."  
  
Grateful hands, dirty, press against Chirrut's own, accepting the bread not quite as eagerly as the water.  
  
"How did you get in?" the last voice is a woman's, the one by the wall.  
  
"They let me in—uh, with reservations. Hush now, don't talk. Drink as much water as you need," Chirut whispered, and began to mutter prayers over them—he could sense people better when he prayed. This girl was barely a woman, too young to have committed any crime, unless it was being too poor or too pretty. This man had darkness in him, but only the kind that came from unjust captivity for too long. And they were hungry, beaten, tired. He had enough evidence.  
  
"I'm sorry, I have to move on. I'll bring you more water before I leave." Then, louder, he said, "Chins up. You do a great service to the Empire, and you cleanse your souls at the same time. May the Force be with you."  
  
He knelt at a new group, this one more pathetic, hungry, reaching.

"Why won't you help us?" someone asked, and it ached Chirrut to not answer her. Already there were whips behind him, forcing the previous group back to work, though that was hardly ten minutes.  
  
In the third group, Chirrut was aware of Baze. He wasn't _right here_ but he was nearby, and Chirrut lifted up his head and his voice, praying loudly for them, so that Baze might hear him. He was barely holding onto his rage, and prayers weren't helping. He almost felt as though—he was _supposed_ to be angry. That it was okay. That the Force willed it.  
  
Or else, he was just angry enough to believe that.  
  
Baze had discovered, over the course of his captivity, that he must only pay attention to threats. The other things that moved in the periphery of his awareness must be ignored, for his own safety. In his first week of captivity, he'd done extra work to protect a small boy gathered in the same net as he. They had not punished Baze, only killed the boy.  
  
So when Chirrut's voice at last penetrated the haze of his thoughts and Baze became aware of the proximity, it pulled him up from a personal hell, from the isolation of thought from action, and he nearly dropped his shovel.  
  
"Don't," his neighbor whispered, pleading. "If you make trouble, they'll send him away!"  
  
Baze gripped his tool tighter, and thought dark things about putting it through a guard’s neck, light things about how Chirrut was really here, finally, at last, or else he was mad and it didn't matter.  
  
"Chirrut," he breathed, when his group was allowed to stop. He reached for his friend's hand, and then shied away—his own barely looked human in contrast.  
  
"Baze," Chirrut said, clasping the hand, gently but urgently, dropping his entire façade. "Baze. How did you—"

He meant to ask how Baze got here. To confirm that these prisoners were truly slaves, wrongly imprisoned and certainly wrongly treated.  
  
But Chirrut reached up to cup Baze's cheek, mapping new scars there, one deep wound under his eye, and Chirrut was so far beyond needing proof.  
  
"How many of them are there?" he asked, his voice lowering to a growl.  
  
“Less than there are of us,” Baze said, his tone an answering growl. Even as Chirrut’s fingertips found the new injury curling around beneath his eye, he didn’t flinch away. He lowered his tone again, careful. “They rely on the chains to do a lot of the work, and our own weaknesses...”  
  
After all, the men around him were half starved and exhausted, mining all day, and barely able to rest at night. But Baze was certain that if they were given the right opportunity, they could all come together.  
  
“If you can get the chain that connects to the—” he began.  
  
“Alright, that’s enough! Getting awful chatty over there,” the guard said. “Go on, get back to work. You, monk, move on to the next group.”  
  
"So very sorry," Chirrut said loudly, and as he stood he pretended to stumble, so that when his staff stuck the ground with all the force he could muster, it cracked the weak chain where it was fixed to the ground, and it looked like he was merely as blind and unsteady as the guards needed to think he was.

"Wait for me," he told Baze while he was down on his knees, trusting him to keep his team under control until he could suss out what they were up against.  
  
His prayers grew louder, more earnest, focusing his strength as he made the rounds to all the slaves: his ears grew sharper, his movements steadier as the guards paid him less and less attention.  
  
"You've come to save us," a young woman breathed.  
  
"The Force has sent me," Chirrut corrected, just as softly. "I sense six guards."  
  
"There are ten of them in total," she replied.  
  
Damn. He really wanted all of them to be here for this.  
  
"All right, blind man, time for you to go," one of the guards said, finally impatient enough with his antics to want him out. "You've done your mercy work, these scum don't deserve what you—"  
  
And the very second the guard put his hand on Chirrut was the very second Chirrut slammed a fist into his chest and stopped his heart. He died soundlessly, and Chirrut lowered him to the ground just as quietly, into the arms of the stunned slaves.

"If he has a key or a weapon, get it," Chirrut hissed.

In the same instant, one of the guards barked out a "Hey, what's going on down there?"

That was as good of a signal as they were going to get.  
  
Baze yanked the chain free of the loops on their ankles, freeing his group, who took up arms with pickaxes and shovels—crude weapons in the face of the guards with their various implements of torture and their blasters, but he moved forward fast enough to cover the entrance and give the others time to free themselves from their bonds.  
  
With the heavy chain in his hands, Baze entraps the first guard to respond in the heavy links, winding it around the man’s neck and pulling tight; he had enough strength to finish this man off, anyway, and to drop his body down onto the ground, yanking his blaster out of the holster.  
  
It was dark, but the guards helpfully broadcast their presence with their lights, and Baze and several other prisoners held the entrance.  
  
“What’s the plan after we make it out of the mines?” Baze wondered, but he supposed that, at least, they had to make it that far first.  
  
But Chirrut ignored Baze. He had his staff, and he had reached the end of his patience and the end of his mercy. These slavers were not Dyl: forced by poverty and wretchedness into a life where they had to steal and kill to survive; these men were worse than murderers because they had made a business of a sin worse than murder and made it look _legitimate_.  
  
So he slammed his staff into the soft spot under a man's chin and then brought him to the ground with an audible crunch that _satisfied_ him, and, _Oh, there’s the Dark side_ , Chirrut thought, bemused. He had thought it didn't exist, actually, a lie made up by Jedi moralists, but, well, it was nice to see where that boundary was.  
  
He still killed the other three, heard two of them gasping and bleeding out, and though he didn't help them he tried not to enjoy it.  
  
"I am one with the Force; the Force is with me," he said, as calmly as though he were practicing his forms in the garden, and when the last of the guards put up something of a fight, Chirrut relieved him of his weapon and shot him point-blank in the chest.  
  
The joke was on Chirrut, though, when the kickback threw him backwards and he landed on his ass.  
  
Baze swooped down and scooped Chirrut up, setting him roughly back up on his feet—he had never seen Chirrut so focused, so deadly and dark, and it surprised him, just as much as it surprised him to find his friend covered in blood—there was something that had changed in him, and Baze was surprised to find it there.  
  
Now was hardly the time to think about it, though.  
  
“Chirrut,” Baze barked, lifting him back onto his feet. “What now?”  
  
They were surrounded by freed, but terrified men. Where would they go? They had nothing, and the planet was still controlled by the empire. He still had a blaster, and they still had their makeshift weapons, but if the Imperials sent down stormtroopers....  
  
Making a snap decision, Baze sent them out into the city. “Everyone get to the temple. My friend and I will get your records, but they won’t do you any good if you’re not safe.”  
  
"Yes, yes," Chirrut gasped, surprised that Baze was suddenly in his arms again, like sun after a storm. He was briefly overwhelmed by _joy_ and the rightness of it, but he had to focus on the problem at hand. "At the top of the tunnel you'll be at a side entrance to the Temple. Go in there, claim sanctuary, and ask to see Master Sidhava, and the Guardian Nan-in and Healer Alussa.

"Can you lead them, Baze? I'll check for stragglers down here, and get their records. There are two guards at the entrance, so you'll need this," he said, pushing the weapon he was still holding—it wasn’t a blaster, though he didn’t have time to figure it out further—into Baze's hands. They were bonier than he remembered, but still strong.  
  
Baze turned the hefty weapon over in his hands, uncertain really which way was up. It was far from the standard blasters he was used to, but it felt solid. Powerful. It looked, also, out of place amongst the rough slavers. A weapon that spoke of something other than brutal efficiency.  
  
“I’ll get them out, but I want to come with you,” Baze said, realizing how it sounded. He meant it, however. “There may be more men than you can carry by yourself.”  
  
“Besides, we only just found each other again,” he said, with a half-grin. “I’m not letting you out of my sight right away.”  
  
Baze sounded so suddenly _vulnerable_ , in a way that only Chirrut could hear, that he drew him close, held the back of his neck, and stood on his toes to kiss him. He imagined Baze had not brushed his teeth in...a long time, but the kiss was sweet, nevertheless.

"We stay together," Chirrut agreed, nodding quickly. "Come on, everyone, this way," he said, taking Baze's hand and leading the way back up the cave.  
  
"So, wait, are you not actually blind?" one of the slaves asked, and Chirrut smiled.  
  
"Ah, _am_ I? The Force allows me to see—" right on cue, though, he stumbled, "er, most things."

He was still holding Baze's hand, and he stopped them at the mouth of the cave. It was silent. The guards were waiting for them, then.

"Together?" he said, and felt Baze nod, so he hooked his staff around the corner, low, bringing one guard to the ground.  
  
Baze leaned out around him further, shooting the second guard with the strange weapon—and finding that it packed quite a punch, thumping back against his shoulder with the force of a kicking animal. But it took the other guard off his feet and into the next life handily, while Chirrut dispatched the first.  
  
“I think that’s it,” Baze said, beckoning the group of freed workers on, leading them to the underground entrance to the temple. He held the door open for them.  
  
“Thank you,” one of the young women whispered, as she went past, grabbing Chirrut’s hand in gratitude.  
  
Chirrut nodded, squeezing her hand gently. "Remember, say sanctuary. Everyone has to say that, and ask for Master Sidhava."  
  
“Stay as quiet as you can,” Baze advised them. “The falsified records should be enough to—well, to get us out of this permanently.”  
  
He hoped. Hopefully the Empire could still be reasoned with, if they had enough leverage. They just needed to get the leverage, and put it in the hands of Master Sidhava, who would have the power to make them listen. When the last man had passed, Baze turned and put his arms around Chirrut again.  
  
Chirrut welcomed the embrace, letting Baze lean on him, feeling how thin he had become. He wanted to take him far from here and protect him, feed him, and keep him until he wanted for nothing, and for the first time that had nothing to do with Destiny.  
  
“They’ve been capturing people along the lesser traveled trade routes,” he explained, taking a deep breath, and then forcing himself to step back, to continue explaining as he led Chirrut back down into the tunnels. He didn’t _want_ to go, but he needed to. He wanted to see sunlight and breathe fresh air again, but without the documents that would only be temporary for him, and for all these people. “Falsifying criminal records so they could have a labor force to contract out to the Empire.”  
  
Chirrut growled, not least because Baze had let him go and now stood on his own. "Damn them. We'll expose them. Even if the Empire knows about this, they can't possibly let the _public_ know that they know."

He punched the body of one of the slavers with his staff to make sure he was dead, or to relieve some aggression. "Okay, what do we need from them? You don't have to touch them, just point out if you see anything. Uh. You _can_ see, down here, right? Are there even lights?"  
  
“They’re carrying lanterns,” Baze said, picking one up—its owner will no longer miss it. He lifted it overhead. He glanced over the men, looking for the leader of their group. He growled—no sign.  
  
“It’s not here,” he said, stepping over bodies, moving deeper into the mines. “Their leader keeps a data archive on him. That’s what we need. But the damn coward isn’t here.”  
  
He shoved a body over, frustrated, and then shook his head. “He must be in the holding area. The cells, where they keep us at night.”  
  
But now he was outnumbered, and they would have to go there anyway, to free anyone who was still down there—those who were really badly off, waiting to heal or die. Baze picked up the strange weapon, and took Chirrut’s hand briefly—enough to show him the direction they were headed, and just to re-establish contact.  
  
“I’m surprised you killed them,” Baze said, as they stalked through the darkness—he left the lantern behind so as not to broadcast that they were coming.  
  
"So am I," Chirrut said, with a little shrug. "May not have to worry, though. I'm sure I'll be kicked out of the Order for this."

He turned back to Baze, took his hand again. "Men who deny the humanity of other beings cannot be reformed. They can only be sent back to the Force to be purged. "  
  
He turned back to the tunnel, feeling Baze close behind him. "Put your hand on my shoulder. I'll lead you," he said, and led them further, deeper, listening and feeling for anyone else. "I don't sense anything. If he got away—"  
  
The strike dazed Chirrut, mainly because he had no idea it was coming, as though the attack had been decided last-minute in a panic, but also because it _hurt_ as a foot connected with the side of his head, knocking him into the far wall.  
  
Baze felt Chirrut go down, and snarled, lifting his weapon and moving up, forward, to put himself between Chirrut and the leader, trying to find something to aim at—he didn’t want to hit the man just anywhere, and didn’t want to risk destroying the records they needed to make this work.  
  
“It won’t work,” the man snarled. “The Empire will kill you all rather than see you—”  
  
Baze lifted the gun, and for a moment, he could feel the Force guiding him, the sound of the man’s voice giving him a place to aim, high enough that he was sure that he was going to hit the man’s head. Very unlikely he was keeping his data archive taped to his forehead. He pulled the trigger before he could second-guess himself, still operating on anger and the protective instinct, aware that Chirrut was behind him and hurt.  
  
The blast lit up the tunnel, and dropped the man instantly, the thud of impact sending up a worried murmur amongst those still remaining in the cells.


	3. Chapter 3

“Don’t worry, we’re here to get you out,” Baze said, dropping to fish through the man’s now bloody clothes for the data archive—he located it in an inner pocket, and then went to Chirrut, checking him with gentle hands.   
  
“Are you alright?” he asked, earnestly, checking Chirrut’s head for any sign of real injury.

Chirrut flinched, his ears still ringing, but he shook his head as they settled and he heard Baze's voice, felt Baze's presence, and gripped his hand.

"Baze! Baze, are you all right? Is he—" but he smelled the blood and the weapon discharge. "My hero," he tried, with what he hoped was a flirty smile, and groaned to his feet. "I'm okay. Let's get these people out of here. Are  _you_ okay? Did you get the data?"   
  
Baze pressed the drive into Chirrut's hand, trusting that he would have pockets to put it into. Chirrut was alright, but the faster they got out of here, the better.   
  
Baze found the lights, turning on the dim yellow bulbs overhead and revealing only three prisoners, all in bad shape.   
  
"Keys," he grumbled, and Chirrut tossed them to him, an easy accurate arc. "Can any of you walk?"   
  
One man had an obviously broken leg, and the others didn't look much better. Baze unlocked the cells, and went in to pick up this worst-injured worker—hoping his strength and adrenaline would hold out until they made it to the surface.   
  
Chirrut blinked indifferently, feeling the heat of the lamp, but he heard and felt the slaves groaning and shielding their eyes from the light. "All right. Who wants to see the sun again? I suppose you didn't get any bread," he said, pulling some slightly squished ones from the nearly empty pouch he still wore. "Can you walk if I help you?"   
  
"I can," a woman's voice offered. "My son...he's very ill."   
  
Chirut knelt close. The boy didn't seem old enough to be of any  _use_ in these mines—maybe a young teenager—but there you have it. Monsters. "It’s all right. I can carry him, and you can lean on me, all right? Baze?" he asked, pulling the boy, fever-warm, into his arms. "You're going to be okay, son."   
  
“I’ve got the last one,” Baze assured Chirrut, sounding determined. “I hope Alussa’s ready for some new patients...”   
  
He picked up the lantern he’d discarded in the upper room, giving it to the man he was carrying in order to light their way back, glad that he knew the way back up and out by heart—he’d been determined not to forget it, to not let himself forget that he’d come back this way someday, and be free.   
  
But the light hurt his eyes when he passed through into the temple, and he had to stop and wait, blinking against something so harmless as sunlight as his eyes remembered how to undilate, and he breathed clean air again.   
  
"Chirrut! CHIRRUT! There you are!" Alussa said, running up to them. "Master Sidhava is looking for you. What have we got here?"   
  
"He's sick. This is his mother. I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't ask your name."   
  
"Uh. Oh. Kai," she said, in two syllables, and Chirrut smiled.   
  
"Kai, this is Sister Alussa, she's going to take care of you and your son, okay?" Chirrut handed the boy off to Alussa and then turned back to Baze. "Baze, give him to me, all right? I can carry him now."   
  
"Chirrut! Baze! Oh, thank the Force, I was gonna go in there after you!" Nan-in exclaimed. "Okay, is that the last of them? Master Sidhava wants to see you."   
  
"Oh, I'm  _aware_ , thanks," Chirrut said, taking the heavier injured man from Baze’s arms as gently as he could.

"I thought you were going to just  _look_!" Alussa scolded Chirrut, but she was distracted by her young charge. "Oh you poor dear, what could they have been thinking?"   
  
She led Kai to the infirmary, of course glad that Chirrut hadn't left her or her son down there, no matter what his orders were.   
  
"We're bringing everyone to the baths, where—Baze, friend, are you all right?" Nan-in asked, grasping Baze's arm as he blinked and staggered where he stood.   
  
Baze simply ran out of steam and sat down. He had made it, he was out. And he had nothing left to give at the moment.   
  
"I'm alright," he assured Nan-in. "Dizzy. Tired. The light hurts."   
  
"Let's get you someplace warm," Nan-in said. "Chirrut can join us in the baths when he's done explaining all these sanctuary-seekers to Master Sidhava."   
  
Baze looked up at Chirrut, at the stern expression on his face. "I'm sure they can't fire monks, can they?   
  
"Absolutely they can," Chirrut answered. "For several things I've done today, none of which I'm sorry about."

But he still didn't want to think about it, and he retreated to the infirmary with his charge, while Nan-in knelt beside Baze.   
  
"Here, Baze," Nan-in said, nudging him. "Water and food, at your elbow. I'm gonna let you rest here, and then we can try moving you to the baths, okay?"   
  
"Come on, you absolute  _flower_ , just carry him!" came Chirrut's taunt, from much farther away than he should have been able to hear that exchange, and Nan-in laughed.   
  
"Okay, I  _can_ carry you, if you prefer," he offered sheepishly.   
  
Baze took the water first and shook his head at Nan-in, refusing to be carried.   
  
"Just let me lean on you," Baze said, and Nan-in obliged, letting Baze finish the water first. "And try not to mind the smell."   
  
"The fresh scent of hard work," Nan-in said. "Pshew, yes, the baths. What did you and Chirrut do about all the slavers?"   
  
"Killed them," Baze revealed, wondering if Nan-in will judge them for it.   
  
"Well I hope you kicked them around first," he said, sounding angry. "Who could do this to someone, even if they supposedly deserved it?"

...  
  
Down in the Infirmary, Chirrut helped Alussa with as much as he could before she had things under control and Master Taia booted him out to go see Master Sidhava.   
  
But Chirrut didn't make it to the Master’s chambers just yet, instead heading back to the baths, bearing large buckets of fresh water. The water wasn’t  needed, though, as the entire Temple had roused themselves to help. Chirrut had never felt the baths so crowded.   
  
"Excuse us, Master Chirrut!" said a small voice from somewhere around his waist, and when he stepped to the right, he heard a pair of initiates waddle past him, bearing a large pot of broth that smelled wonderful.   
  
There was a lot of noise that was disorienting, though mostly people spoke—or wept—in hushed tones. Chirrut patted the data card against his breast, to make sure it was there. Everything was fine here. The Guardians, at all levels, were tending these poor people. He supposed he should go see Master Sidhava...   
  
"Chirrut," called a voice, and Chirrut turned his head, set the bucket of water down, and ran to fall at his friend's feet.   
  
"Baze," he gasped, reaching for him like he couldn't believe he was real, clasping his hands and kissing them.   
  
“How’s the boy?” Baze asked, curling his hands around Chirrut’s and pulling him closer—he had been through the baths, but there were so many bodies to process that he’d managed only a quick dip and had to do the rest of his washing in a bucket.   
  
Now, though he shivered as water dried on him, he still felt better than he had in months, and he’d had a chance to brush his teeth, and sit down for a while. But the part that really gave him strength again was to pull Chirrut against him  and just hold him close, until they were both sure that neither was going anywhere.

Chirrut all but fell against the wall Baze was leaning against, and they pulled each other near, Chirrut providing himself as something for Baze to lean against.

"The boy is going to be fine," he answered, kissing the top of Baze's head, his hair shorn spiky and short.   
  
“I knew you’d come,” Baze told Chirrut, holding him tight, pressing his mouth to Chirrut’s cheek.   
  
And here, with his arms around Baze and Baze's arms around him, with Baze  _safe_ and  _here_ , Chirrut finally let himself burst into tears, hiding them in Baze's hair.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered, trying not to let anyone but Baze hear him. "I didn't listen to the Force, I thought it was just my own longing, I didn't know you were there, in the market, I'm  _sorry_ , Baze. I'm so sorry."   
  
“It’s alright,” Baze assured Chirrut, pulling him closer, hiding his own face against Chirrut’s shoulder where he could hide his own tears, shaking his head. “It’s alright, it’s not your fault.”   
  
Far from it, if Chirrut was in charge of the universe, Baze is certain it would be a much fairer place. His face hurt, his whole body hurt, and his chest felt tight with too much emotion but he knew, now it would be okay.   
  
“I shouldn’t have left,” he admitted, “but I thought—I thought I needed to make more of my own decisions before I made this one.”   
  
Finally—he looked up, curling his hand behind Chirrut’s head and guiding their mouths together, letting the kiss serve as both of their apologies and acceptances.   
  
"Shh, shh, don't say that, Baze, hush—" he begged, and then they were kissing, clinging together, and Chirrut had never felt so  _right_. "I'm here. I've got you, brother," he promised. And he wasn't going to let go.   
  
Eventually the embrace softened, once they were sure the other was real, and Chirrut remembered to check for Baze's hurts. "Are you injured?"

Chirrut tried to feel for pain in his friend, his fingertips gliding softly down Baze's back, feeling old and new whip-marks, but no broken bones or infected wounds. He peeled back, heedless of the tear-tracks down his face, and touched Baze's face, re-mapping it, gentle with the cut under his eye. "Let me get some salve. Are you warm enough?"  
  
“I’m still on Jedha,” Baze managed to tease, flinching only slightly as Chirrut’s fingers found the deepest part of the cut over his cheekbone, but refusing to draw away. “But we’ve found the warmest part of it, so for now, yes.”   
  
He’d need clothes again, but that could wait. “Did you bring the data to Master Sidhava? Can he use it to argue our case to the Empire?”   
  
He could see, however, from Chirrut’s expression that he hadn’t spoken to his Master yet. Baze reached up and wiped the tear tracks from his face. “I can come with you.”   
  
Chirrut kissed Baze's fingertips. "You don't have to. I'm a big boy," he said, but with an audible sniffle, and a soft smile. "I, ah. Unless  _you_ needed—or wanted—to stay with me?"

But Chirrut laughed then, and shook his head. "I'm teasing. You should stay, and rest. I won't be long, I'm sure..."  
  
"Hey," Nan-in said, and knelt beside them, offering a blanket. "Sorry we can't put you all up somewhere better. We're working on getting beds down here, and rooms for as many as we can."

Most of the monks were giving up their own cots, and their own rooms, actually, but Nan-in didn't necessarily want Baze to hear that. "Chirrut, have you not—"  
  
"No, no, I haven't. I'm going now. I guess," Chirrut said, pushing a fist across his eyes.   
  
Baze accepted the blanket. “I think most of us would be grateful to sleep anywhere that doesn’t have any bars.”   
  
Nan-in smiled at him, and nodded. “But I think we can do better than that if we try.”   
  
“Go on, Chirrut,” Baze told him, giving him a gentle, encouraging push. “I’ll be here no matter what happens. I think I can help Nan-in with the cots...”   
  
“I’m stronger than I look, you know!” Nan-in protested, but he let Baze come along with him anyway to help set things up—two pairs of hands made things go faster.

Chirrut stood up, and nodded. "Okay. Yeah. Okay, I'll—um—see you two later, then," he said, sounding distracted.   
  
"Just  _go_!" Nan-in said. "I'll make sure he doesn't run off again, okay?"   
  
Realizing with a start that that was what he was worried about, and feeling foolish for it, Chirrut fled before his cheeks grew too hot. He had lost track of his staff at some point, and he felt a bit bare without it, but he knew the way to Master Sidhava's room, following the path with one hand on the walls.   
  
He was admitted immediately, and dropped into a full bow, touching his forehead to the ground. "Master Sidhava, you summoned me," he said.   
  
“Chirrut!” Sidhava barked, withdrawing from the council he was organizing to be certain that everyone was fed, everyone was clothed, and that any hostilities that came against the Temple might be redirected to into diplomacy if at all possible. Already it had been a long day.   
  
He dismissed the other two masters to their duties, and regarded his most wayward brother who at least seemed to know he should be appropriately repentant.   
  
“Chirrut Îmwe, do you care to explain to me why I have a temple full of refugees seeking sanctuary when I asked you only to discover the situation in the mines?” he demanded,  genuinely furious. He was frustrated, overwhelmed, and yet—he stopped, rubbing the bridge of his nose. he was going to lose all of his hair early this way. “How am I going to explain the dead guards to the Empire?”   
  
"I accept full responsibility, Master Sidhava," Chirrut said, staying facedown on the floor. "You can tell the truth. I was guarding the holy Temple and the holy City from defilement by slavers. I have documents which I am sure we could, in Baze Malbus' case alone, prove that they were falsified."

He lifted himself but not his head, reaching into his robes and handing the datacard up, daring: "You can tell the Empire they might screen their clients a little more carefully in the future.”  
  
Sidhava sputtered, briefly, at Chirrut’s audacity, hands clawing the air in a brief moment of extreme frustration before he finally took the datacard and huffed out an exasperated sigh.   
  
“I sent you to gather information so we could apply pressure diplomatically, Chirrut,” Sidhava said. And yet he could hardly bring himself to regret Chirrut’s actions—he’d seen the condition of the miners when they had come out, and he’d seen their ages and eyes and had judged that none of them were guilty of the crimes attributed to them.   
  
“I should dismiss you,” Sidhava said, knowing that the other Masters may call for it—that they had already expressed their displeasure with the situation, their fear of the Empire’s reprisal. And yet—he couldn’t deny the outcome.   
  
“Except where would the Guardians be without compassion like yours?” he asked, sighing, sitting down in front of Chirrut as his anger faded. “I hope what you’ve brought me is enough to save them  _and_ us.”   
  
"I...hope so, too," Chirrut said softly, no longer quite as brazen in his belief he had done the right thing. He still had done the right thing, but he was less sure, now, that his entire order wouldn't pay for it.   
  
Master Sidhava stood up and moved away, but didn't dismiss Chirrut, and he waited, still on his knees. "I...would accept any punishment, Master. And if the Empire should call for my removal—"   
  
"That is  _not_ their jurisdiction, that is  _mine_ ," Sidhava said fiercely, and Chirrut realized that this was far, far bigger than he.   
  
"Of course, Master," he said.   
  
Hating that the Empire had cost them their ability to be freely compassionate; that they had spread slavery onto their world, to steal the treasures from beneath the Holy City, to strip more and more while the Guardians had to remain civil and smiling or else risk having even more of their freedoms hedged in.   
  
This would cost them. Maybe not now but...somewhere down the line.   
  
“And yet I can’t bring myself, in my heart, to be truly angry about it,” Sidhava said. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, and felt the way the Force was flowing through the Temple; here it was active, alive. Every set of hands moving to a purpose, every body roused to action in the service of those who needed it. The way it had once been, the way it  _should_ be.   
  
“If we cannot protect those who need it, what right do we have to call ourselves Guardians?” he asked, almost rhetorically. “Alright, Chirrut. I should tell you your punishment is to spend the night somewhere Baze Malbus isn’t, but I know better than to interfere with Destiny, and Baze at least deserves no punishment. Instead, I expect you to clean the flagstones in the main chamber. Until they gleam. With a toothbrush.”   
  
"Thank you, Master," Chirrut leapt to his feet and bowed, grinning. "You know, I'm probably gonna need someone to watch me clean those stones, because you said specifically until they  _gleam_ and, well—"

He gestured to his washed-out pupils, but a warning growl that sounded very much like 'Chirrut' made him bow again and all but flee the room.

...  
  
"Baze! Baze! Nan-in!" he cried, grabbing a few friends along the way to tell them the Good News that he was  _not_ , in fact, being dismissed!   
  
"That's a shame!" called Master Vish, but then, Chirrut had had him flat on his back in training yesterday, so Chirrut didn't grudge him the comment.   
  
Skidding in a patch of wet grass, Chirrut found Baze right where he left him, and panted a little, realizing he had run the whole way. "It's okay. He's got the data. It looks good. You're gonna be okay. And I'm gonna be—whoo!" he panted, taking a breath, "—okay!"   
  
“Is that so?” Baze asked, smiling, glad to see that Chirrut’s meeting had some favorable outcome. The rest, he hoped, would speak for itself—the falsified evidence, all of that. He got up to sit down on the grass next to Chirrut, reaching around him with the blanket, and looking out over the scene happening.   
  
It was all thanks to Chirrut, and as bad as it had been, there was hope that things could be alright now. He took a deep breath, leaning shoulder to shoulder to Chirrut. “Totally scot-free, huh?”   
  
Chirrut was tired, quite suddenly, and he fought to keep his eyes open. "Well, no. I have to polish the main chamber with a toothbrush, or something. He might have been joking, but—"

Chirrut turned his head, listening around him, and yawned. "I should be helping. Anyone look like they need anything?"

He should go get his bed, bring it down for Baze to sleep in, safe and sound. He rubbed his eyes. "Do you need anything?"  
  
“A chance to sleep,” Baze admitted, also yawning. “I thought we could share your cot, if you still have one. As for help, I think your brothers have the rest covered. You—”   
  
Baze hesitated, and then reached up with a corner of the blanket, wiping away the dried blood on Chirrut’s neck and cheek, tenderly, finishing his words differently than he might have. “You’ve done enough today, I think.”   
  
Chirrut stirred himself, and winced. "Oh, no, I'm filthy, aren't I? Let me go wash. Did you get a chance to? Wow, I don't know when I last ate, either. Did they feed you? Then we'll go to my cell—I have my own now, you know, we got promoted—though who knows, anymore, I might get busted down to Acolyte again. Or I could bring my bed down here, where it's warmer."

Chirrut realized he didn't make a lot of sense when he was tired. "Sorry. I'm talking too much. I'm just— _so_ glad you're..." He slid his hand over Baze's and squeezed it gently.   
  
“They brought me a bucket,” Baze revealed. “I did the best I’ll be able to until the baths are really free. And they fed me—and you fed me.”   
  
He got up, and helped Chirrut up as well. “I think that weapon you picked up is something interesting. Some of the other monks seemed surprised to see it.”   
  
Baze bent down and tossed Chirrut’s stick up to him, satisfied when he caught it. “It’ll be warm enough with two of us, I think.”   
  
Chirrut did hear a lot of splashing, so maybe the baths were occupied. Well, Baze's smell didn't offend, and maybe Chirrut could get away with washing his face and hands and changing his robes. "Okay. We'll go," he said, but he didn't leave without checking with Nan-in, and getting water, tea, and a mug of broth for each of them on a small tray.   
  
"We can enjoy my room while I still have it," he said as he nudged the door open. "You know, Master Sidhava thought the best way to punish me would be to forbid me from seeing you."

He didn't know why he said that, actually, and he set the tea and broth down before disrobing to his waist and washing in the basin of water that stood in the corner by the chamber pot. He had healing herbs among his things, and he drew them out and knelt before Baze, who sat on the bed.   
  
“Would that have made you regret your actions?” Baze wondered, reaching up to twine his fingers through the windchimes and send them ringing before he sat down, holding the blanket around his shoulders.   
  
"No. Maybe. I'd've snuck out. He knows me. At least with polishing the stones I'm kept out of trouble for a few days. And you get to watch, of course. He was very specific that they be 'gleaming,' so I'll need a spotter. What's the line? We have to stop meeting like this?" he said with a grin, as he began to smear an ointment over the wound on Baze's cheek.   
  
Baze hissed in a breath, but only let it out slowly. “Agreed. I’d ask if my good looks were permanently ruined but...”   
  
Chirrut snorted, and then seemed to think better of it. "Sorry, you're not going to like my answer."

He traced his fingertips lightly down Baze's neck, over his shoulders and arms and sides, and only once he was satisfied Baze would survive he grabbed him around the middle and gently squeezed, wiggling his fingers where he knew Baze was ticklish.  
  
“I look the same as I always—” Baze started, and then gasped, squirming under Chirrut’s assault, laughing and trying to fight him off, finally just grabbing Chirrut’s hands and when that failed to stop him, reaching to grab him in a bear hug and muscle him over onto the floor and into a real wrestling match.   
  
“You could play fair,” Baze grunted, finding that his advantage of bulk has pretty much vanished, but he’s not afraid to play a little dirty and try tickling Chirrut back, and then when that didn’t work to his satisfaction, he used the blanket like a net to try and entangle him.   
  
Chirrut laughed and squawked as he let Baze tackle him (okay, it was a fair tackle, but only because Chirrut hadn't been expecting it!).

"No! You—" he grunted, trying to squirm out from underneath Baze without actually fighting him (he was afraid to so much as flip him off, he'd felt how scarred his back was) and slowly letting himself be enveloped and—and kind of liking it. "I was going to say I hope your good looks are entirely ruined. It is exhausting being jealous of all your girlfriends."

  
Baze, once he’d fully entrapped Chirrut’s dangerous fingers in the blanket, settled down to curl their bodies together, pressing his forehead against Chirrut’s.   
  
“You’ll just have to be jealous forever,” Baze said. “It’ll be a very attractive scar.”   
  
Finally, when he was sure Chirrut wasn’t going to make another move for his weak spot, Baze loosened his grip. “Besides, I don’t know how much more blatantly I have to ask you to get into bed with me.”   
  
Chirrut huffed, feeling a nervous flush spread over his chest and cheeks. He had stopped struggling, so when Baze loosened his hold, he didn't move.

And they were  _so close_.   
  
"I, uh, yeah," he stammered. "No. I mean,  _yeah_. Though. I don't mind the floor much, either, as far as, um, as long as—" he said, lips twitching into a shy smile before he tilted his chin up to seek a kiss. "We c-could move?"   
  
“Are you blushing? You?” Baze asked, as if in disbelief, pressing a kiss against Chirrut’s mouth. “The man who suggested I read the Book of Desire for inspiration?”   
  
Chirrut only blushed harder at that, but at least his fire returned somewhat. "I'm not blushing!" he protested, in spite of evidence to the contrary.   
  
Baze got up, shifting back onto the bed, and helping Chirrut up onto it, making room, pulling Chirrut’s body against his and seeming content to keep things just like that. “There are pictures in there, you know. I still don’t believe some of the positions are  possible.”   
  
"I've never seen the pictures. I—ah—we have one copy I can only sort of read. Nan-in read me the bits he thought were funny."   
  
_Well, shit, Chirrut, go ahead and admit you're a virgin, right now, too!_  
  
“There’s a whole chapter of pictures,” Baze agreed. “But the text isn’t all naughty, either. Some of it’s just about providing for the wellbeing of your soulmate. And organizing a household.”   
  
Instead of answering, Chirrut snuggled up close, wriggling up the bed and sliding his arm under Baze's head to provide a pillow, and he ran his fingertips through Baze's hair. They breathed together for a long minute.

"I'm sorry," Chirrut finally gasped. "H-how long? You don't have to tell me, but..."  
  
“They first cut it off a few months ago,” Baze said, letting his eyes close. He was really very tired, if he stopped moving forward. “It was shaved again before they handed me over for work in the mines.”   
  
He pulled the blanket up over both of them. “It will grow back.”   
  
"I didn't mean your hair, you dummy," Chirrut said, kissing his brow. "You sweet, strong, beautiful dummy. I meant, when did they capture you? But that's for—whenever you want to tell me," he sighed, touching their foreheads together.   
  
"I missed you," he said, and thought about saying more, but wasn't sure he could get through it without weeping or screaming, so he fell silent again.   
  
“I missed you,” Baze answered,  automatically, as if he were just realizing it—he knows, of course, that he had—but the depth of how much is still striking him.

They were interrupted by Chirrut’s stomach gurgling. "I don't suppose I could convince you to drink your broth before you sleep? I'm going to have mine. It's no good cold."

Baze sat up, allowing Chirrut to press the cup of broth into his hands, and he felt grateful that it was still warm, the cup seeming to seep all that warmth into his bones.   
  
He took a long sip and then went back to the earlier point. “It was a while after I left. I traveled for a few months—half a year? I saw many new places and I didn’t have to look at them with soldier’s eyes. Then, as I was leaving Takodana, I just put my hand in with the wrong crew.”   
  
Baze took another long sip. “I was very bad at it, you know. Being a slave. I was passed often into different hands. Too stubborn.”

"Good," Chirrut said firmly. He let Baze lean on him as they sipped their broth in silence, punctuated by bouts of conversation. "The Force has bigger plans for you than that."   
  
When they were done, Chirrut set their mugs aside, and fussed with the blankets to cover Baze's larger (but not much larger, not anymore) form.

"If you need anything, you'll let me know? I mean it, anything. Wake me up. Even if it's—" here he snorted, "if you just need me to leave the room so you can—" he tried, but couldn't get through it without giggling, shaking the entire bed in an attempt to be quiet.

"You can go now," Baze told him, flatly, but with real intent, he'd had a lot of liquid and practically no privacy. Better to get it over with than to wake up in the middle of the night.  
  
When that was done, though Chirrut giggling in the hallway was almost enough to stop the stream cold, and his hands were washed, Baze allowed his chuckling counterpart to return.   
  
"Someday I'll laugh at you when you need to piss," Baze grumbled. "See how quickly it dries up then."   
  
But he held no real grudge, getting them both back under the blankets, and relaxing quickly toward sleep.

"I just think it's funny that you're worried about me seeing when I  _can't_ see, or like, listening, when I can certainly still hear through a—you know what, never mind."

He kissed Baze's hair and laid down. "You can watch me piss any time, friend. I have no shame."

He laughed again, shaking the frame of the small cot, but Baze was either ignoring him or actually asleep, so with a last chuckle Chirrut wrapped arms and legs around his bed mate, and slept better than he could ever remember.


	4. Chapter 4

Late in the night, the dreams came. Baze dreamed that he woke in his cell, and the pang of hunger, the pain of the cut healing slowly on his face throbbed a slow, unyielding pulse through him; a warped sense of awareness convincing him that he was there. He was back there—and though it seemed wrong to his thoughts, he could feel the chains at his ankles and wrists, practically dragging him down to the floor.  
  
He’d been dreaming, of course. Dreaming of rescue.   
  
In his sleep, Baze stirred and pushed away, restless, turning—the space on the cot was very small, and Baze quickly went over the edge, thumping heavily to the ground in that moment between sleep and waking, and the floor was so cold and hard, he lost track of where he was for an instant.   
  
Even the shock of hitting the ground, of being truly awake and not just dreaming of waking up—wasn’t enough to clear Baze’s thoughts all the way. He lay very still and quiet, ears straining, listening for the sound of the guard, or the other prisoners, hoping he hadn’t been crying out enough to warrant a punishment.   
  
"Baze?" Chirrut sat up, grogginess giving way quickly to concern as he felt for Baze and found him absent from the bed—but heard him panting on the floor. He reached out for his shoulder, fingers as gentle as he could make them: "Baze? Are you all right? Do you need something?"   
  
Now that Chirrut was concentrating, he felt something like panic whipping off of Baze in waves and pulses. He was hurt? Chirrut flung himself from the cot, dropping to his knees beside his friend. "Did you fall out of bed?"   
  
Baze was unable to help his flinch back from the touch, even as he tried to entangle his thoughts in his grip and force them to make sense. Someone was talking to him—a guard? A friend? For a few long moments all he could do was make himself very small—the sudden movement in his direction didn’t help, his mind telling him that danger and pain were about to come and there was nothing he could do except try to keep it away from the weaker places on his body.   
  
Had he been fully awake, Baze tried to tell himself, somewhere under the rest of his racing and insensible thoughts, he’d never have been intimidated by pain. It was only his dream of comfort—a dream, right? Was he awake now?—that had left him so vulnerable.   
  
"Baze," Chirrut said, frowning as Baze moved away from his touch, breath hitching, and he barely refrained from reaching for him again. Clearly he was confused, upset. Had he had a nightmare?   
  
Only rarely did Chirrut wish fervently for sight, and this was one of those times. The Force swirled around Baze, frenetic and anxious, scared and wounded. Chirrut kept his voice as controlled and gentle as he could: "Did you have a bad dream? You're safe, remember. You're out of the caves now, it's just nighttime. Do you want me to put on a light?"   
  
When he received no answer, Chirrut felt his way to the small nightstand and the small lantern he had borrowed permanently from Nan-in for Baze's benefit. He struggled briefly to turn it on, and heard the hum that it had activated its glow. "There. How's that?"   
  
Chirrut’s voice more than the light led Baze back out of the darkness. The flash of his white sleeping clothes, the fact that no blows have landed on him. He took a deep breath, and unfolded himself a little, enough to see that he was no longer underground, to feel the space around him, not large but safe. Free. He could go if he wanted. He didn’t want to. The other body there is Chirrut’s, and relief filled Baze at that, like the warm creeping back in after a bucket of snow melt thrown in your face.   
  
He couldn’t find his voice for a few minutes, but he could reach out—he was stiff and sore from the day’s exertions, and hitting the floor had only woken a chorus of aches, but he managed to curl his hand gently around Chirrut’s ankle for the contact—he couldn’t reach Chirrut’s hand yet.   
  
Chirrut closed the gap between them, sliding across the floor in companionable silence, his fingertips—going slowly, by way of permission—searching out the nature of the hurt. Baze's skin was cold in places and hot in others, and clammy with sweat, and he felt more crooked and awkward in his limbs than he seemed earlier. Chirrut kept his voice whisper-soft and sensitive: "It's alright , Baze. It’s all alright."   
  
Finally, Baze managed, “I didn’t know what the dream was.”   
  
This felt real; but his memories of his tiny cell are so close still that they feel just as real, just as looming. Baze, quietly, hated this disorientation. The urge to sink his teeth into the side of his own palm, like you did when you were a child to check what was a dream, rose and passed.

If this wasn’t real, he didn’t want to know.  
  
Chirrut plucked a blanket from the bed, keeping his movements slow, and wound it around Baze's shoulders. "May I put my arms around you, Baze Malbus?"   
  
A dozen words of permission and request clatter together in Baze’s mind and hit his teeth, and he was already leaning into the touch—gentle, real, damnit—before he managed to get even one past and into the atmosphere.   
  
“Yes,” he hissed, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Please.”   
  
_Thank the Force, he's back_ , Chirrut thought, drawing Baze into an embrace that was probably far fiercer and tighter than Baze actually needed, but it was solid and warm, and Baze leaned into him and clutched at him, so Chirrut didn't think it was unwanted.   
  
"Okay, we’re okay," he whispered, tucking Baze under his chin and kissing his hair. He realized that one or both of them was shaking, and he took deep and careful breaths to calm his own heartbeat.   
  
"It's okay. I've got you. You're safe now. It was just a dream," he continued to chant, now rubbing a hand up and down Baze's back, softly so as not to hurt his scars (and there were a lot of them).   
  
It was something about the familiar way Chirrut smelled, the strength and gentleness of his hands and the way he felt—his voice coming through the contact—that convinced Baze everything was alright. Or it would be, given time. At least they had both been blessed with patience.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Baze said, and he was, but he didn’t let go of Chirrut. The contact was real and human, and even the cold air couldn’t deter Baze. “I didn’t realize how much...”   
  
He shook his head. He’d been fine when he got free; he’d held together while he was captive. Why now, when he was safe?   
  
"It's all right," Chirrut said again, drawing out the sound with the soothing motions of his hand. "You needn't be sorry, my friend. What you went through..."   
  
"You should not have been brought back like this. I am sorry. I am here. I love you." He dug his fingers into Baze's shoulders, angry or protective, and said nothing for some time. He ran his hand up into Baze's hair. "Are you hungry? Would you like a soothing tea? A walk?"   
  
The contact was nice—it made Baze feel human and solid, even as Chirrut’s fingers ran through his shorn hair as if it should be longer. He leaned into the touch, sitting up some to press his cheek against Chirrut’s, breathing in and out in an attempt to gather himself. To find peace, like the monks taught at meditation.   
  
“Yes,” Baze said, and then realized it was unclear. “Tea, and a walk. I don’t care where, just to get the tension out.”   
  
He pulled Chirrut tighter against him for a moment, as if fortifying himself to give up the contact, and then stood, without letting go of Chirrut’s hand so he could pull his friend to his feet.   
  
Chirrut stood, and helped Baze to dress in warm robes and shoes, and dressed himself in the same before hooking an arm around Baze's waist, as much to support him as to connect with him, and be supported by him.   
  
"And some food," he admonished, squeezing Baze's side. "Your belly is too soft. You need some bread. A good hearty meal so hunger won't wake you again."   
  
“I’ll accept even a bad hearty meal,” Baze tried for levity, leaning against Chirrut for comfort more than stability.   
  
Wanting to keep quiet, Chirrut left his staff behind, using Baze to guide him—though in the darkness, he was the leader, guiding Baze down halls and steps until they were in the kitchens. They were quiet, but a fire still burned low, and Chirrut moved Baze to sit close to it.   
  
The motion felt good—it helped to bring Baze up out of the spell, and then the warmth of the fire was so comforting that Baze drew up comfortably onto the hearth. At any other time he would help—or protest Chirrut doing all of this for him, but he felt better to keep his eyes on Chirrut now. If he was honest with himself, even the short walk through the halls had taxed him more than he’d have thought possible.   
  
He kept his eyes on Chirrut as if the other man might vanish if he looked away, and wonders when all of his anxiety at watching a blind man navigate the various dangers of a kitchen had vanished. Chirrut was confident as he made the tea.   
  
“You should have a cup too,” Baze said, “an excuse to sit with me.”   
  
Chirrut tipped his head back and smiled, teeth glinting in the low light.   
  
"Of course," he said, putting together a tray with two rolls of bread—not as good as the ones he baked yesterday, if he said so himself, but they would serve—two hunks of cheese, and two small fruits. By then the tea had steeped, so he removed the leaves to keep the drink from becoming bitter, and, since he was spoiling Baze, he mixed some honey into the pot.   
  
He felt Baze's eyes on him the whole way, and they were a comfort. He was still shaken. Baze was still shaken, judging by the sound of his voice. He returned with steady feet and steady hands, resting the tray on the low table, and sliding his chair close enough that they could sit shoulder to shoulder while they ate. "Well. It's a mediocre hearty meal. Will you pour the tea?"   
  
“I’ve never been so grateful for a meal,” Baze revealed, pouring tea for each of them with one hand on the lid of the teapot to keep it from rattling. It was still dark; the very depths of the morning, but something about that felt right. He curled his hands around the teacup and held onto it carefully; he felt big and rough after his ordeal. Clumsy and heavy and graceless.   
  
The practical, unadorned teacups that the monks used felt tiny and delicate in his hands, but also warm and glowing and he blew a few times to clear steam and then drank deep—it was sweeter than he was used to, but his body felt greedy for the sugar and energy it could give him.   
  
“Thank you, Chirrut. For everything,” he said. “For being here.”   
  
Chirrut was supposed to be eating, but true nourishment sat before him in the shape of a bent yet unbroken man. He laid a hand on Baze's thigh, squeezing gently, to make sure he was real.   
  
"I should thank you for the same. I wish you were  _here_ under very different circumstances." He shrugged. "I will always be here."   
  
Chirrut followed the line of Baze's body up to his shoulder, and then back down his arm, taking one hand away from the tea to kiss his knuckles. "Thank you for...surviving. I think I would not...be much longer for this world if I knew that you were not in it."   
  
The thought echoes his own—and Baze had not even been aware he was truly thinking it—so closely that it almost startled Baze. It was a parallel he hadn’t expected. He shook his head, set down his tea-cup and pulled Chirrut against him, hip to hip, with an arm around his middle.   
  
“Don’t say that,” he said. “Don’t think it. We’ll survive together or apart, no matter what.”   
  
Even Baze knew that wasn’t true, they were already interlinked this far. But he didn’t want to think such bleak thoughts now, only bright ones.

Chirrut didn't think so, but he smiled and waved it off, and released Baze's hand back to him. "Anyway, you are here now, and I am here. The Force works in mysterious ways. Could we—or would we—have done anything for the other wretches if you had not been among them?"   
  
He took a sip of his tea, finally, and let Baze eat. After several minutes of companionable silence, Chirrut thought to start up a debate, since Baze enjoyed those, and it would give his mind something to focus on besides his dark memories. "Is it better, do you think, to be wise or curious?"   
  
Baze considered this, understanding it to be the sort of question designed to bring his mind back to a better place. Something for debate. He gave it a moment to take root in his thoughts, chewing his bread and drinking tea to clear his mouth.   
  
“Are we assuming one to the complete absence of the other?” he wondered, looking at Chirrut for clarification. “Or an emphasis on one over the other?”   
  
"Ah, a wise question," Chirrut said, grinning and leaning in to nudge Baze with his arm. "Let us begin with the assumption of complete absence of the other. Is it better to be a wise being with no curiosity, or a curious one with no wisdom?"   
  
Baze finished his bread, more hungry than thoughtful, but he gave himself time to think about it, too.   
  
“Either existence is too cyclical to mean much,” Baze said. “A curious person with no wisdom asks questions with no direction; like a very small child. They get caught up too far into ‘why’ of one detail or another and change direction too rapidly to truly understand. A wise person with no curiosity can only ever be wise in one thing. It narrows their world to exclude all others.”   
  
He poured tea for both of them again. “What do you think, Master Chirrut?”   
  
Chirrut laughed. "When I asked the question, I was worried I was describing each of our personalities.  _Now_ I'm worried you've described us both, but opposite to how I first thought!"   
  
But Chirrut wouldn't say which he thought Baze was, and which he thought he was. "You are right, one without the other is hardly worth debating. So is it better to be mostly wise, but with a little curiosity, or mostly curious, but with a little wisdom?"   
  
Baze laughed. “I feel like now I should answer it’s better for these two people to be friends, so balance is achieved.”   
  
He leaned over and kissed Chirrut’s cheek, very gently, aware of how quickly his stubble was coming back in, and gave the question real consideration as he finished his tea. Then he gave Chirrut a nudge, and they both got up to wash the dishes so no one would find a mess first thing in the morning.   
  
With his hands deep in the dishwater, soapy to the elbows, he answered at last. “It’s better to be unbalanced both ways over the course of your life. Sometimes you need more wisdom than curiosity, but you should never forget to ask why. Sometimes you need more curiosity than wisdom, but you shouldn’t let it consume you.”   
  
Chirrut smiled, taking the dishes that Baze nudged against his hands to dry and put away. "I think it's a fair answer. The youth is more curious and the elder more wise, but both must have both natures in them all their lives."   
  
When the dishes were done, Chirrut returned to Baze's side. "Would you like to walk some more, or go to sleep? We could return to the gardens if it would ease you to see the faces of those others who are freed."   
  
“I’m exhausted,” Baze admitted, yawning. “I highly suspect you of spiking my tea.”   
  
"The better to have my wicked way with you," Chirrut teased, tucking himself under Baze's arm and leaning up to kiss his cheek, though it ended up somewhere around his neck. "I'm only joking. It is meant to help you relax, though. Give you sweet dreams."   
  
They made their way back through the halls and up the steps to Chirrut's cell, and there Chirrut paused. "You know I—don't believe I thanked you for saving my life today. That man, the head slaver—he really surprised me, and I should be dead if you were not by my side."   
  
“Does that even the score?” Baze wondered. “You saved me, again. I saved you. Thank you as well, Chirrut. My wisdom tells me that it won’t be the last time we owe each other such debts.”   
  
Chirrut laughed lightly at that: "That is well, for I am curious to see when and how and where you'll try to get yourself killed again, requiring my rescue."   
  
He pushed into his room again. The small lantern was still humming softly, lighting the room for Baze's benefit. "Was our earlier sleeping arrangement acceptable to you? I could meditate and keep watch, if you think it would ease your rest."   
  
“No,” Baze protested. “Come be in the bed with me. Close.”   
  
He sighed, and it was an apologetic sound as he shrugged out of his warm over-robe and helped Chirrut out of his. He knew it was selfish, but he could acknowledge this neediness today, and accept that there was a reason for it, as he pulled Chirrut against him, just feeling his warmth.   
  
Chirrut let out a small huff as Baze drew him close, and his arms wound instinctively around him.   
  
"Well I'm just glad you offered," he said, as they rearranged themselves side by side, face to face, Baze with his head tucked against Chirrut's shoulder and their legs and arms tangled as though they feared they might drift apart in the night. "You'll notice I said I would meditate beside you. I don't think I could sleep without you in my arms."   
  
Baze, exhausted, pulled Chirrut even closer and shook his head a little—whether in agreement or disagreement was uncertain.   
  
“If you keep talking neither of us will be sleeping,” he murmured, with another expansive yawn—his body was already relaxing toward sleep. He felt like he could sleep another full day—another year. In that instant, he’d never felt anything as soft or as comfortable as his place in Chirrut’s cot, in Chirrut’s arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please feel free to talk to us in the comments, and subscribe to the series to see what the Empire will have to say about uppity monks...

**Author's Note:**

>  ****  
> [83\. No Work, No Food](http://www.ashidakim.com/zenkoans/zenindex.html)  
>  Hyakujo, the Chinese Zen master, used to labor with his pupils even at the age of eighty, trimming the gardens, cleaning the grounds, and pruning the trees.
> 
> The pupils felt sorry to see the old teacher working so hard, but they knew he would not listen to their advice to stop, so they hid away his tools.
> 
> That day the master did not eat. The next day he did not eat, nor the next. "He may be angry because we have hidden his tools," the pupils surmised. "We had better put them back."
> 
> The day they did, the teacher worked and ate the same as before. In the evening he instructed them: "No work, no food."


End file.
